Bit by Bit
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: His takes his victims bit by bit, swallows a piece of them, then watches them squirm, and Derek Hale makes for a nice long meal. With the werewolf at a killer's mercy, Braeden seeks help from an unlikely place, the Winchester brothers. Things, as usual, go sideways for Sam and Dean. Gen/pre-ship. Rated for violence and body horror.
1. Chapter 1

Setting: SPN Season 8 (but, it only mentions bits and doesn't go into detail, so the season arch doesn't matter much, just know that it's post-Purgatory), TW season 5 (but not extremely relevant so long as you know what happened at the end of 4). Both shows have a wacky timeline, but it's roughly 2012-ish, to line it up.

Written for the WIPBigBang (LJ).

HC_bingo wild card fill (trapped together)

* * *

Bit by Bit

* * *

Hunger had brought him this far. He'd not been born with it. He'd not been so fortunate as that, but he'd found ways of igniting hunger within himself. Of forcing himself to consume. _'A growing boy needs to eat.'_ His mother had told him as much, and he lived now by those words. Her last words.

Because he might have come from her womb, but he was his father's child, and he was growing, still growing. His mortal shell had reached its limitations, and the truth of his bloodline was there, beneath the surface: he needed to devour.

His last…acquisition had done nothing to help chip away this human shell, but the next would be full of what he needed. Full of life. For now, though, he could continue his regiment with the warm meal waiting for him in the basement.

* * *

Black curves outlined in white light, scalding to the touch, and all his. Dean could ignore the slight whine of her heavy door opening and the stifling humid heat caught inside, so long as she welcomed him home with a roar. It was always a comfort, having his baby waiting for him. He'd not had enough time with her lately, what with the whole trip to Purgatory getting in the way, and the douche-nozzle Leviathans forcing him to store her for a turn. But there she was, always loyal and willing to take him back.

Such a comment, though, would lead to side-eye from Sam, some reading-between-the-lines about said-loyalty that would push them straight into an argument they'd already had. So, instead, Dean forced his focus back on the job and what they'd seen in the building behind them. It was easy to pretend that this was just like old times.

"People, man," Sam muttered, obviously on the same track.

Dean shook his head, disgusted, but he knew Sam read the agreement in his expression as they both sunk down into the Impala. Dean could feel his stomach settle as he relaxed. On instinct, he reached up as soon as Baby rumbled to life and loosened the tie around his neck, as if playing the part of a Suit was what had put him on edge instead of the sight of the corpse. And maybe the gesture wasn't entirely a lie. He'd felt more than a bit out of place since returning to the real world.

Dean put the car in reverse and gave Sam a sideways glance, more than ready to fill his head with thoughts of anything other than the too-vivid image they were leaving behind. "Is it wrong that I'm still a little hungry?"

Sam's nose wrinkled, but the huff of amusement that followed was enough to cut the tense air.

Dean chuckled. If it sounded a bit forced, so be it. "I know you had your heart set on it, but I think we should go with anything but Mamma Rosa's burrito shack if I'm going to be stuck in the car with you all night."

"I didn't want to eat at-" Sam's voice cut off, as if he'd caught himself taking the bait, and he muttered, "Screw you." He frowned, scratching at the back of his neck. "I guess this was a bust."

So much for changing the subject. Dean shrugged the comment off. "Hey, I thought it was our kind of gig too, or I wouldn't have hauled ass to friggin' Tennessee of all places. Even the locals thought it was a weird one."

Until they'd examined the knife marks left in the bones and cartilage, until they'd realized the work was far too precise to belong to something with sharp claws and teeth. Dean hated the fact that he didn't feel any of the things he should have felt, any of the things a normal person would have felt, when he saw the skinned, bloodless cadaver laying on the examination table. That his first reaction was to piss off the coroner by asking if it was found riding a skinned horse. He really, _really_ should leave the museum jokes to Sammy, he'd mentally noted. The Buffalo Bill one would have been more his speed.

Normal people didn't stare at carved away cheeks and wonder why they were taken with the skin. Granted, normal people didn't look for signs of witchcraft and supernatural creatures, either. But, that wasn't what made Dean hate himself just a little. What made him sick was that he'd been glad to see it. Glad it wasn't a floater. Glad it wasn't molded and bloated. Glad the body didn't have much of a chance to decay before it was found. He hated that he'd seen worse.

It wasn't until Sam had pulled him aside and agreed with the coroner, that a person with at least a basic knowledge of anatomy had removed the skin and neither of them could think of a spell that required those particular parts, that Dean's stomach twisted into knots.

People, man. Yeah, those were the ones that got to him every time. Why couldn't monsters just be monsters?

"So we're agreeing on this: garden variety psycho?" Dean asked aloud.

Sam sighed, eyes downcast. "Likely. The organs taken weren't the ones commonly used in witchcraft, and if someone had been collecting parts, they did a horrible job. All the damage in the muscles seem to point toward pieces being removed in small strips."

"Jesus, guess we can rule out making a body suit, too?"

Sam ignored the comment. "The removal was so clean though. If they'd found the skin instead of the body, I'd have thought it was a shifter … I'm still going to put in some research, check all our bases, since we came this far. We've already got a room for the night."

"Because why not stay in Earth's ass-crack another day?" Dean replied, wiping a trail of sweat off his forehead. Unseasonably warm and humid; thanks, Dan-the-Weather-Man, didn't notice. "So, what are you thinking? Drug cartel?"

"The teeth were still intact. Would have wanted to slow down the ID on the victim if it was drug related. Maybe gang?"

Dean snorted. "Doesn't look like that sort of town, but then again, this doesn't look like the sort of place where skinned bodies pop up at the city park either. Which brings us back to psycho? Unless your gut was right and shifters have a completely different idea of streaking."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Back to psycho," he echoed. "But we need to make sure. Plus we barely know anything about the victim."

"Dude worked for a local insurance branch, was single, loved animals. What more is there to know?" At Sam's glare, Dean relented. "Fine. Let's stay the night. See if the insurance salesman had a skin-peeling kink in his closet. But we're still skipping the burritos."

Sam's huff was the intended reaction, and Dean smirked a bit at it, hoping his unease didn't show on his face. He glanced in the rearview mirror, but he couldn't see the reason why the hair on the back on his neck was standing. He could have sworn that someone was watching him.

* * *

She'd slid off the scorching hot seat of her Triumph and taken approximately two steps when she'd spotted the Impala, just a block down and parked in front of her next destination, the county medical examiner's office. Braeden was glad instinct had kicked in before rationality, because if she'd had any time to think, she would have reasoned that one classic car didn't equal a pair of hunters scoping out the same dead body she was looking to find. So much for that logic. Thankfully, she'd slid into the shaded side of a neighboring building, helmet still in hand, a split second before the glass door had opened and two tall men had walked out.

Back against brick, she waited, giving her bike and the hidden weapons in her saddlebag a longing look. Her ride, she knew, wasn't as familiar to her particular circle of "peers." After a second, she chanced a glance, seeing the two men disappear into the car. They sat there a few long moments, talking.

Braeden took a shallow breath but it did nothing for the thundering rattle in her chest. Normally it wouldn't have bothered her, seeing hunters on a case. After all, her mercenary work in the past had her side-by-side with this type on a weekly basis. But this was not a normal situation.

"Just my luck," she whispered. Then, with a wince, she revised the comment. "Just _his_ luck."

Any other time, if she'd run across the famed Winchester brothers, she would have approached the situation with curiosity or high-tailed in the opposite direction if there wasn't a job on the line, but at the moment, she found herself frozen in place. She couldn't just leave knowing that the latest victim might be tied to Derek's disappearance.

She had to find Derek. If he was still alive. And if he wasn't…Well, she needed to know one way another, and if she wanted to pretend that it was for the sake of the pack he left behind in Beacon Hills and not because he was the only man who'd proved a decent distraction in recent years, that was her own business.

Braeden pressed her head against the wall, scowling to herself. She wasn't sure who she was angrier at, herself for leaving to find the Desert Wolf, or Derek for taking the out she gave him.

 _I should never have left him alone. If I'd asked for his help, he wouldn't have stayed in some hole-the-wall town, pretending to be normal. Idiot._

It didn't really matter, though, who was to blame for their last face-to-face. What mattered was Derek was gone, and she needed to remedy that in a hurry. When she'd picked up the clue that led her to this town, she'd hoped there wouldn't be any hunters able to follow the creature's tracks, and she hadn't anticipated that anyone might have already beaten her to the punch.

Still. The Winchesters had a reputation, or they did, before they seemed to fall off the map. Multiple reputations, actually. On the one hand, they seemed to leave a trail of blood wherever they went. On the other, they had people, good people, who vouched for them. Said they were fair. Decent guys. Not just good at hunting. Which meant there was a chance in Hell they might hear her out before deciding their hunt needed to involve wolfs-bane.

Already regretting the action, she stepped out from behind the wall, pushing her helmet down over her long black hair. The Impala was making a turn out of eyeshot, but she'd be able to track them.

"Hold on, Derek," she said.

She hoped to God that she was betting on the right rumors being true.

* * *

"Bit."

It comes back.

"By."

It comes back.

"Bit."

Derek doesn't want his eyes to open. He wants to pretend he's still out, but his brain is moving slower than his instinct and the voice seems so loud after he's spent most of his day unconscious or listening to the creak of the old house, the soft footsteps on the floor above, the drip of his blood onto the floor.

The light above is probably dull to humans, but it's too bright for Derek. He flinches, then grimaces as he becomes fully awake to his surroundings. So long down here, and yet the smell was always a fresh assault on his nostrils. The cement floor held on to the decay. He moved his head to the side, as he always did, as if he could press his nose into his shoulder, but it only served to send a fresh shock of pain through his damaged arms. He didn't have to look up to see how horrible his wrists looked, tendrils of black bleeding into the cuts the brutal manacles left behind. The wolfsbane his captor was using might have been too mild to kill him, but it was enough to keep Derek from shifting.

The monster didn't seem bothered by the smell or the sight of him.

"Bit by bit," it said, almost singing. "Bit by bit, I'll eat you up."

Derek guessed it wanted to see terror on his face; he gifted it with annoyance instead. He'd gone through all the stages by this point. Anger had always been a strong suit for him, so he'd held on to rage the first few days, then he'd tried reasoning. He wouldn't admit the fear part, even if it had shown on his face. A part of him had gone numb for a while, but when he'd circled past that phase, he'd moved straight on to frustration.

"Where's the shifter?" Derek asked.

His voice came out hard, and he almost choked on the words when he pushed them out, but it was worth the little frown that appeared on his captor's face.

"The leftovers were spoiled."

Derek hated the sound of that voice, its slight southern twang, its almost lofty lilt. It didn't sound even slightly aggressive, and, for that matter, the monster wasn't in any way monstrous looking, slim in his fine dress shirts and pressed trousers and wearing a bright white grin. He looked like a small town politician, young and convincing. The name he'd given, as if making polite introductions, was Jasper. Derek wouldn't have liked him under any circumstance.

"You killed him," Derek answered for him.

"He died. Honestly, I thought he'd be a bit more … durable."

Derek closed his eyes and wished he hadn't. He could see it even clearer behind his eyelids, what the monster had done to the shifter. Peeled him, like fruit, then complained that the taste wasn't right. The _taste._

Derek swallowed down bile, not for the first time since he'd arrived.

He blinked to awareness and tried to stifle that sudden panic clawing at his insides. He couldn't remember how many days it had been. He'd been so diligent, trying to count them, trying to measure them by visits and the little slip of sunlight or moonlight that reflected from the upstairs rooms when the door at the top of the basement stairs opened. But now he couldn't pull together the information. He couldn't remember how many days he'd counted. A month, he knew. One month, because the pull of the full moon had come and gone and been more damned painful and frustrating than the filleting blade that slid across his flesh at every "meal."

It wouldn't matter. One month, two. How many could he last? He didn't want to find out. And biding his time wasn't going to help him, not when he'd left Scott, the pack, behind. Someone would miss him, eventually, but he didn't have a reputation for answering phone calls. They wouldn't have a clue he was actually missing until it was too late.

"If I don't fill you up, why do you keep me?" Derek asked. The question came out more curious than defiant.

Jasper smiled, almost softly. "Oh, my poor little mutt is feeling down about himself today."

Derek tried to push himself back when Jasper came closer, but the only result was a squeal from the chain above. Jasper reached out, running his blunt, human-like fingers over Derek's flank. The skin there felt fresh, too sensitive, from where his healing had done its best to try and mend the wound. Soon it would stop, soon his body would be too weak to bother with growing new flesh.

"You do fill my belly," Jasper insisted, "like corn mash for a starving man. But you're just not what I crave. It's not your fault, of course. You're just not quite … right."

Those roving fingers slid lower, over Derek's hip. The wolf in him had growled and snapped at first, when Jasper had stripped him down. Derek had shut down, mentally, that day, preparing himself for what was coming. But Jasper had only wanted easier access to his flank.

The knife's bite was expected, but Derek still flinched before he could steel himself against the pain. The monster wasn't greedy today. It was over quickly, a slice across, another down, another across. Somehow, the heat from the blood sliding down his hip made Derek shiver uncontrollably. When his eyes closed, he wasn't sure, but when they opened, he was staring at Jasper, who now held a triangle of flesh over his lips. He opened wide, dropping it down his gullet with a sick, wet slurp.

Jasper pulled out a handkerchief, dabbing at the corner of his mouth. "I can feel it," he said, as if to himself. "Every taste brings me closer to what I am." His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Derek, but there wasn't any menace there. Instead, there was almost fondness in his expression. "And I have you to thank for that."

Derek winced, already knowing this part of the story. Jasper was a talker, and as much as Derek wanted him to shut up, he listened on, hoping there would be something new there, something to be learned. Something that would let him know when this would end.

"After my dear old momma did her part, folks were lookin' a bit too close," Jasper tutted, as if disappointed. "Would've been difficult, pickin' off the denizens without raising suspicion, and, well, I'd already started the processes of bettering myself, so I just couldn't stop. What was a fella to do? But then I had not one, but two, little freakish out-of-towners wander by, one chasing the other. Oh, mutt, when I watched you fight, watched you heal ... Mercy, it was like a light bulb went off."

Jasper wiped at his bloody fingertips. "Here is my miracle, I thought," he said, grinning, "here is my feast."


	2. Chapter 2

Patience had not been her virtue when she was younger, but over the years Braeden had learned that waiting was part of this job. It was what made her good at what she did, that instinct to hold back. It was what kept her alive. Reflexively, she reached up, touching the thick scars over her jaw, trailing down her neck. Those were a reminder to always bide her time. Those few times she'd run in too quickly, with too little info, were the times she regretted the most.

So, she waited, a stake-out, like her old job as a U.S. Marshall had occasionally required. The Winchesters were, as to be expected, staying at a motel that looked like it had last been renovated in the 1970s. They'd brought food back with them, and she'd worried that they'd stay in all evening, but at dusk, she'd spotted movement at the door. The tallest, Sam if rumors of his stature were to be believed, rather loudly barked something at his brother about not wanting to go out, but Dean had come out, slapped him on the back, as if insisting.

Braeden wished she had Derek's senses, so she could hear exactly what they were saying, but the two were loud enough, even from her spot at the end of the long building. Their Chevy sputtered and roared and purred, and she turned her back to the road, pretending to play on her phone as they drove past. As soon as the car was out of earshot, she moved, not wasting any more time.

It didn't take long, breaking in to the motel room's front door. There was something to be said for the general uncaring nature of visitors to a run down place like this. She doubted anyone would say a word, even if they did notice her lack of a key card.

It was cleaner inside than she'd expected, but she doubted that the scent of mildew and old smoke belonged to the hunters who'd just checked in. Curling her nose, she went to task, looking for whatever notes the Winchesters had gathered on their case. Her first stop was at the small closet, where an oversized army duffle bag sat, still unpacked. She stooped down, tearing at the zipper.

"Try not to unfold the shirts."

The voice startled her, but her training kept her from making sudden movements. She turned, slowly, hands up and open. The hulking form of Sam Winchester blocked out most of the light from the bathroom behind him. She'd seen him leave with Dean, she was certain, but there he was, a handgun trained on her.

"You doubled back," she said, almost accusingly.

He shrugged. "You should always check these old motels for bathroom windows," he suggested. "But, then, you seemed in an awful hurry to get in here."

So much for patience, Braeden thought. "When did you clock me?"

"Not until we were getting our room," Sam answered. He gave her a crooked grin. "But, I get the feeling you've been following us for longer. Dean!"

The name startled her, but a second later, the front door clicked as it as unlocked. Dean Winchester strode in, gaze narrowed dangerously.

"You know, if you'd just tried to pick me up at the bar, you'd have been a hell of a lot more successful at whatever you're planning," Dean commented, a doggish grin on his face. It didn't meet his eyes. His attention shifted to his brother. "So, what is she?"

Braeden blinked, surprised. "I'm not a what. I'm a who."

"Witch?" Dean asked, ignoring her. "She slip any hex bags into our stuff?"

"Maybe," Sam replied. "She crossed the barriers, so not a demon."

Braeden rolled her eyes, relaxing somewhat, despite the gun. "Jesus, it's good I'm not just a thief, or this conversation would be stranger than usual. I'm a hunter, like you two. My name's Braeden. And you're the Winchesters, alive and kicking, apparently."

Dean blinked at her, but she could tell the surprise on his face was fake. She wasn't sure what had given her away, but he obviously wasn't shocked at the possibility of them sharing the same profession.

"And, you, what, were really interested in taking a job off our hands?" Sam asked, scoffing. He straightened slightly, as if sobering. "Or were you hunting _us_?"

"Because that didn't work out of the last guys who made that mistake," Dean cut in.

"I spotted you earlier, at the coroners' office, and knew we were on the same case. Thought I'd see what info you had before attempting small talk. No need to waste my time and yours if you're not who I'm looking for." Braeden shot Sam a dark look. "Would you mind lowering that?"

"The skinned body?" Sam asked, confused. His gun remained in place. "What do you know about it?"

Braeden sighed. Without waiting for permission, she eased down on the edge of the closest bed. "More than you do, I'm beginning to think. For starters, the skin was shed, then the flesh was carved after. The body belonged to a shifter."

The Winchesters' shared a look. When Dean crossed the room to pat down her jacket, she let him without a fight. After she let him take her pistol out of her shoulder holster, he settled in to the bed across from her, Sam moving to stand by his side.

"You know that how exactly?" Dean asked.

"Because someone tipped me off about a shifter a while back. A friend. That friend is missing now, and I think whatever killed the shifter has him."

Sam's brow wrinkled in thought. "How long's your friend been missing?"

Braeden hesitated. Even though she'd talked herself into making the gamble, there was a part of her that didn't think it was a good choice, telling them.

"I was away for a while, on a hunt," she said, "so I'm not sure of the exact day, but from interviewing his landlady, I'd say a little over a month. At least. He was the type to pay in advance and stay out of sight, so that's all I have to go with. That and I think he and the shifter went missing at the same time."

Dean raised a brow. "Because he was on the job? He's a hunter too?"

Braeden flinched when she imagined the look on Derek's face if he'd been called a hunter. "Not exactly, but if something dangerous was out there, he would have had pursued it. He knows about the supernatural, would know how to track it, find out who it was pretending to be. Take it down."

Dean leaned back slightly, a torn look on his face. "I don't have to say it, do it? This guy, Derek, if he was taken a month ago by something that could keep a shifter as a play thing for that long?"

"Dean," Sam chided, quietly.

"Normal circumstances," Braeden interrupted, "I'd agree with you, but there hasn't been another body recovered. And Derek isn't normal. He could survive." _I hope_ , was left unsaid. "If the creature we're after is what I think it is, there's a chance he might be alive."

"Two questions first," Sam said, looking perturbed.

Braeden cut her eyes at him, stopping him before he could ask. Now or never. "Derek's a born pureblood werewolf and the thing we're after is a possibly a late generation wendigo. That answer your questions?"

Dean's eyes widened. "It really, really doesn't, lady."

Braeden nodded once to herself. Most days, her life didn't seem to make sense to her either. "It's a long story, and I know most hunters are the shoot first type. But I've heard stories about you two, they seem indicate you toe a line when it comes to the supernatural. I thought you might be willing to hear me out before you go hunting the wrong guy."

"You might have heard wrong," Dean answered, a gravel to his voice that seemed dangerous. "Awfully dangerous move, telling other hunters about your little pet project."

She wondered if she'd been wrong too, but honestly, at this point, it didn't matter. Either the Winchesters would or wouldn't help, and she could deal with the consequences when they found Derek, even if that meant getting out of the line of fire with the wolf in tow.

"How does a hunter end up trying to rescue a werewolf?" Sam asked, sounding genuinely interested. "And you said 'born werewolf'?" He gave Dean a meaning look before turning his attention back to her. "We've run across a pureblood. Recently. How much do you know about the species?"

"Like I said," Braeden replied, "long story."

Dean's grin looked a bit sour. "Well, lucky us, the night is young."

* * *

"And since when do wendigo reproduce? Is being cursed into being a beast just too cliche for people nowadays?" Dean snapped. "I don't think this Braeden chick knows the difference between a rugaru and a wendigo-it's not like she came with, shit, references. She could be a hack, for all we know. Did you ask Garth about her?"

He pretended not to notice the way Sam was biting down a grin as shook his head.

"Not answering. I don't know, man," Sam replied, clearing his throat. The Impala's passenger seat groaned as he sunk deeper into it. "Bobby had some notes from back when Eve was on the rise."

"Wendigo orgy," Dean commented, remembering, and shuttering.

Sam grimaces. "Exactly. Anyway, we never did get details-monsters weren't exactly behaving normally at the time. Anyway, the notes Bobby left, they said he and Rufus had more than a couple interesting wendigo hunts, including one in a suburb. He wrote about there being some sort of species that could look like people when they wanted to, as far as he could tell, if they weren't too 'gluttonous.' He wasn't sure at the time, but he theorized they became more…like us, when they grouped into families."

"That's just a heartwarming thought," Dean sneered.

"I mean, if that's true and they kept a low profile, they could blend in as well as ghouls. And we know wendigo like to keep the same prey for long periods. They're usually careful like that. Rugaru can't control their hunger that well," Sam noted.

"Maybe he's on a diet," Dean offered.

The sour expression dropped from his face when he looked up from his spot in the driver's side to see the female hunter still in the diner where they'd stopped for breakfast. Even while Sam and Dean had make excuses to escape the awkward meal quickly, she was still at the booth, on her phone, 'working contacts,' as she'd put it. Even in the distance he could see the distraught look on her face when she ended the call. Clearly her info wasn't panning out.

The hours they'd spent during the previous evening, mostly with Braeden explaining what she already knew about the hunt, hadn't brought much useful knowledge to the table either. Especially since the conversation kept circling back to the fact that she wasn't willing to give much more information on her friend's species of werewolf. As if the hunters might use his weaknesses against the missing wolf.

Not exactly an incorrect assumption, Dean thought, but he didn't like the way doubt settled in his stomach afterward. Purgatory had been… It hadn't offered much in the way of up-sides, but things had been clearer there. In a way, it had been much easier, just hunting, without thought or consideration. It was a monster's paradise, after all-Dean swallowed the taste of bile at the back of his throat and tried to clear his head.

"As much as I loved staying up all night for our little hunter sleep-over party, I'm not sure there's much we can do for her," Dean admitted. "Wendigo-cousin or not, that knowledge won't help her furry buddy." He glanced over at Sam. "We know the guy's dead. Now or when we find him."

"But that doesn't change the fact that we're hunting this thing, right?" Sam said. He sighed at the look on Dean's face. "And it's only a matter of time before it starts picking off human victims."

"If it hasn't already," Dean noted.

He looked back to the restaurant in time to see Braeden step out the front doors and wave in their direction, gesturing for them to follow. She hopped on her bike, bringing it to life, and spinning out of the parking lot.

Dean nodded, cranking the engine, and turning the wheel to follow. "The lady's going to be disappointed," he resolved.

Sam shrugged, pulling on his lap belt. "We can find her a body to burn. It's the least we can do for another hunter."

"That we can," Dean muttered. "Let's hunt."

* * *

"The shifter used his credit card at this convenient store nearly every day," Braeden said.

Her voice was a bit harsher after Dean commented on the first three stops they'd made after nearly an hour of travelling around the county. It hadn't been a polite comment, Sam knew, but he was used to dealing with frustrated and bored Dean more than she was. He decided to play the buffer before the hunters went to blows. Or, more importantly, the group made a spectacle of themselves in front of Ray's Gas and Grocery before they had any answers from the clerk.

"We're not arguing with your methods, here," Sam insisted, keeping his voice low. A family in a mini-van at the pump was staring at them, and he hoped it was just to admire the classic car and motorcycle parked beside the building. "I think it was a good idea, checking out the shifter's place, but there's no sign he was taken from there. Is there a reason we're focusing on Riverside, instead of Trussville, where we found the body?"

"And not splitting up, like we should have done before wasting the gas to get to this dump," Dean inserted.

Sam shot him a look to quiet him.

Braeden sighed. "I've been all over Trussville, but I'm sure it was just a body dump site…For starters, there were no signs the shifter was killed there. And then there's Derek. He was here in Riverside, staying just outside the town. I interviewed his landlady over the phone, and the last time she saw him lines up with the last time anyone say Benjamin Marrow, our insurance seller the shifter was pretending to be. Derek realized something supernatural was targeting people, that's why he left me a message about it. Which means both of them were probably in town when they were taken."

"And if our wendigo spotted them together, they were probably somewhere they frequented." Sam frowned. "But that doesn't really narrow things down."

"No," Braeden said, quietly, "it doesn't. But if the shifter was in here the last day he was seen, which his card transactions indicate…" She threw her hands up, glaring at the pair. "It's a shot in the dark, sure, but I'm going to take it. Now are you two in, or would you like to dick around a bit longer."

"We'll take the dicking option," Dean snapped. Catching himself, he sighed. "The clerk checked out your ass from the glass door twice already. I think you'll have better luck with him. We'll figure out where to go next."

"Such a gentleman," Braeden breathed, turning on her heel to leave the men behind.

Sam felt his brother's elbow in his side a second later and hissed in pain. "The hell, Dean?"

Dean snorted, amused. "If you'd like to go after her, make sure your girlfriend's feelings aren't hurt, I won't stop you."

"Dean!" Sam rolled his eyes. He was somewhat surprised by the, obvious, ribbing, and tried to pretend it still came naturally. "We're looking for her probably-dead boyfriend, if you forgot."

And, I just got out of a relationship, he wanted to add. He bit his lip to keep that part down. Neither of them needed a conversation about Amelia at the moment.

"She didn't say he was her boyfriend," Dean noted, a small smile on his face. After a second, he dropped it. "I'm being an asshole."

Sam blinked, surprised. "Yes. But, it's odd for you to notice."

Dean shook his head. "I prefer the simple jobs. Bad thing kills good people. We kill bad thing. Werewolves are becoming a bit of a gray zone. I don't like it."

"Feels like we've discussed this before," Sam said. "The day this is easy is the day we're not the good guys," he noted.

"Thanks for the wisdom, Tony Robbins," Dean said, slapping his brother across the back. "Now go apologize for me."

"Excuse me?"

Dean shrugged. "Make something up about me having a stick up my ass. Do your Sam thing. I'm going to stretch my legs, call that landlady back and see if _Derek_ was a prize tenant." He pointed at the long stretch of buildings beside the corner convenience store. They seemed to lead to the old downtown section of Riverside. "Maybe we can slip in some light antiquing while we're here."

"You're a dick," Sam said.

"Would explain all the dicking around," Dean commented, walking away from the car.

* * *

The cold crept into his arms, trailing from his fingertips to his elbows, and it took him a few long seconds of wakefulness to realize that the room was actually stifling, and that the chill was from the prickling numbness radiating from his wrists. Dean's first clear thought was an acknowledgement; this was going to hurt like a bitch when he was free. His body was angled awkwardly, leaving him leaning forward while a strap kept his thighs secured to the seat of a chair, another keeping his legs to its wooden ones and his boots on the floor. Even through his jeans, the belts were chafing, so he could only imagine that he'd been struggling against the uncomfortable position.

Not that he could remember. He couldn't recall how long he'd been drifting in and out of consciousness, only that the last crystal clear memory he had was of looking through a store's window and spotting an antique clown doll that he fully planned on photographing. Sam wouldn't appreciate the joke, but it would make him think things were ok between them. So, worth it.

Dean didn't know what it said about his life, that he could recognize a concussion quickly, that this wasn't the first time he'd woken up in a dank, dark room with a head wound. That he'd been in worse situations.

His instinct was to touch his scalp, and the attempted movement sent a shock of pain down his shoulder, reminding him that he couldn't move. He turned his head slightly, seeing little more than a brick wall behind a rickety wooden staircase. The space's single yellow bulb hung above the steps. His peripheral vision hinted at a rope pulley holding his arms, cuffed, straight behind him to limit his movement. If he had to guess, he was certain the pulley system could also be cranked to pull him upright, dislocating both his arms with no effort. The thought make him nauseous.

"Freak has a sex dungeon. That's great," he muttered, hearing the slur in his words. That head injury was going to be a problem.

"At least…you get to keep…your clothes."

Dean froze, fighting the urge to swear under his breath, and carefully turned his head to scope out the rest of the room, something pre-concussion Dean would have managed right away. Something told him the other occupant wasn't the one who'd put him down here, though.

In the darkness, the other man wasn't more than a lithe shadow, stretching high, his toes scraping the cement floor and his arms above him. Even the dim lighting didn't disguise the blood, dark and puddled beneath him and streaking the length of his body. The scent of it was heavy in the air.

Dean wanted to comment on the nudity like his fellow abductee, find a bit of levity, but he choked on the words as his eyes adjusted to the lighting. Those weren't just streaks of blood down the man's flank. Triangular strips of flesh were peeled back, the muscle still showing through.

For a split second, Dean thought he was having a nightmare, seeing visions of hell again, and he tensed to hold back a tremble.

Despite speaking, the other man wasn't moving, his body completely still, most of his face hidden by his bicep.

"Your name wouldn't happen to be Derek?" Dean finally managed.

The body shifted. The yellow light caught the man's eyes, and they glowed faintly, instinctively, like headlights finding an animal in the brush. There was a bit of blue in the glow, but it was gone in a second. If he didn't know better, Dean would have thought he'd imagined it.

"Braeden," Dean explained. "She's looking for you."

The werewolf was quiet a long moment, and Dean thought maybe he'd passed out. He wouldn't have blamed the guy. Neither he nor Sam had thought there was a chance of Derek even being alive. And if he was…Well, Dean had to admit, while they some experience with werewolves, helping them was not part of the job. Believing that one could control himself every day of the month? That was downright bizarre, even if Braeden vouched for his status as a good citizen.

Yet, the first instinct Dean had when he looked at the other man was get him down, help him. Shit, give the guy some whiskey and pain meds. Then, what? Put him out of his misery? Didn't seem right.

It was confusing. Remembering those college kids, that poor girl they let get away not too long back, didn't help matters. In fact, it fully conflicted with the part of himself that had clawed its way out of Purgatory, still buzzed by the neverending hunt.

Focus on the first problem, Dean reminded himself.

The first problem being the one that had struck him and strung him up.

"Braeden." Derek whispered the name, like the didn't quite believe it. His voice was hoarse, but Dean could hear him well enough. The werewolf's head lifted slightly. "Then you're a hunter."

There was a distinct lack of emotion in the words, and Dean reasoned that was to keep the fear from showing. Dean forced a grimace into a small grin.

"Yeah, how's that for a rescue party, wolf boy," he noted, then jerked his chin. "Dean Winchester."

Derek let out a long sigh. "I think I'd prefer an Argent."

Dean's eyes narrowed. The Argent name was familiar, but that wasn't information he was keen on sharing with the werewolf. Still… He opened his mouth to ask, but was interrupted by a sound from above, footsteps.

"It's him," Derek confirmed. "He's coming down."


	3. Chapter 3

Winchester.

Derek knew that name from somewhere, slipped in some faded memory of his mother mentioning a hunting family by the surname. Not one of the larger ones, certainly not one like the Argents, with their long standing vendetta against werewolves (Chris possibly being the only exception, despite his personal tragedies), but hunters were a dangerous breed under any circumstance. Which was why Derek thought it was odd, the way his stomach dropped when he watched Jasper descend the stairs, whistling a tune as his eyes locked onto Dean Winchester.

The hunter was trying his best to hold his neck up to see the bastard, but with his arms tied back and together, he was failing. Derek didn't think it would matter. Seeing Jasper, how normal, how polite and clean-cut he appeared to be, wouldn't prepare anyone for what was to come.

Derek knew fear, knew what his own tasted like on the tip of his tongue. This Winchester wasn't feeling nearly enough of it. Derek wanted to scream at the thought of seeing this all over again. The shifter, at least, had been a murderous beast, able to heal quickly to some degree. This was a human. Maybe not an innocent one, but fragile, like people were.

Derek had a habit of forgetting that sometimes, and he wished he could forget it right now. When Jasper went to work, the hunter wouldn't last long.

Why he cared, that was a question Derek couldn't answer. He told himself that this fear was actually guilt, guilt over the fact that he'd had no faith in Braeden finding him, but she'd been out there, recruiting help. Actually looking for him. And now part of the rescue team was on the dinner menu. She would blame herself.

She should blame him.

"Sounds dandy," Dean snapped.

Derek realized he had missed some of the conversation between Jasper and Winchester. That had been happening more frequently, his focus slipping. He didn't know if it was a defense mechanism his mind had conjured to keep him from having to hear the wet slurp of his skin peeling from his muscle every day or if it was the wolfsbane bleeding in through his open wounds. What he did notice, clearly, was the hunter's false bravado and the monster's joy.

Derek had never seen Jasper quiet so giddy, even when he was…feasting. But the happiness on the creature's face was obvious. Derek even picked up on a hint of arousal in the air. That was far more common. Jasper always enjoyed his time in the basement.

"It must be fate," Jasper said, his voice trembling slightly in excitement. "I couldn't have planned such a perfect series of circumstances. There I was, minding my own business, when I spotted your little crew. I admit, I was a touch worried when I realized what you were, why you were here. I hadn't prepared myself for hunters, just yet. But then, I saw you… My stomach _growled_. Can you believe that?"

"Fated?" Dean spat. "Buddy, I know I'm a hot piece of man meat, but I promise, one bite of this and you'll choke. You don't know the crap you've just stepped into."

Jasper chuckled. "My mouth watered," he said, more softly, completely ignoring the man's words. He reached out, fingertips combing through Dean's short hair almost tenderly. "Then, why, you went and separated from the herd. Practically wondered up to my doorstop, a beautiful lamb for the slaughter. I didn't think I was ready to try human again yet, but…you're irresistible. I can feel it. You're going to be the one."

Derek didn't realize the low growl was coming from his own throat until Jasper turned his way, a chiding frown on his face.

"Oh, you jealous little mutt," Jasper said, fondly. "Don't you worry your pretty head over him. I'll still need you a bit longer. You'll get your turn at breakfast. After all, if I want this to work, then I need to take my time. Can't rush perfection, Momma used to say."

"You know," Dean commented, "I was expecting a monster, but the batshit crazy momma's boy is a surprise."

The slap was loud, startling Derek. Dean's head snapped to the side, the blow leaving his eyes shut in pain.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

"Rude." Jasper tutted him, then raised his hand again, this time to kiss a dab of blood off his knuckle. "Tasty. I was going to try and fast until my next attempt to ascend, but I don't think a snack ever killed anyone. Anyone but you, maybe."

Jasper chuckled at his joke, then circled behind Dean, so that the man couldn't see him. After a moment's hesitation, Jasper pushed up the back of the hunter's shirt, staring down at the smooth skin beneath, his fingers hovering over the flesh, as if hesitating.

"Get your fucking hands off me," Dean grunted, trying to buck out of his chair. It held tight.

"Don't," Derek begged, swallowing hard. "Jasper, please don't. You don't have to do this!"

"Just a taste," Jasper promised and pulled a small knife from his pocket. "A little nip to tide me over. Don't worry, mutt. You're the main course tomorrow."

* * *

"You done?"

Sam looked up from the table at the sound of her voice. He'd overturned it, thankfully not while his laptop was occupying the top, but his notes, the clipping, were scattered around the floor next to the chair.

He hadn't reacted well. Not then, at the gas station, nor when they made it to a motel on the edge of town to re-group and come up with a plan. In truth, he couldn't even fully remember what he'd told the other hunter when he realized…

Sam swallowed hard. When he realized Dean was missing. Again. Sam was certain that whatever had left his mouth hadn't been nice, but Braeden was still there, so she must have understood his reaction.

"Good," she continued. "You don't strike me as the kind of person to lose it like that."

"This is kind of a thing with Dean. Disappearing," Sam said, quietly, trying to force a bitter smile onto his face. It didn't work. He straightened, taking a deep breath to calm down. "We need Cas."

"Who?"

Sam grimaced. "Someone who isn't answering right now…Forget it." He took a breath, trying to calm down. "Ok, let's go over this again. What do we know about the area where the shifter went missing? You were obviously right about the location."

Braeden raised a brow at him, as if she didn't quite believe he was done with his breakdown. "We're going to find them," she assured him. "Both of them."

Sam didn't meet her eye. He wasn't exactly a hundred percent certain that Dean's disappearance was tied to Derek's. The area was the same, sure, but he had enough experience to know that Winchester luck ran sour, often. Between the demon and angel problems, and their long list of enemies, nothing was guaranteed. Still, she was right about one thing. Following this hunt was the only lead they had.

"Yeah," he agreed, not quite feeling it. He closed his eyes, quieting the voice inside him that said to panic, and opened his eyes again to see the woman staring down at her phone. "Did your contacts have anything?"

He remembered that part at least, that she mentioned getting some info on cases that might be related. Apparently, she was an ex-US Marshall, which came in handy. And if he hadn't walked out of that convenient store to find Dean missing, he would have asked her why she left that part of her life behind.

"Maybe." She swiped the surface of her phone. "I wanted to know more about missing persons cases in the area," she reminded, "but there aren't many to choose from, even including the communities around Riverside and Trussville. There are a couple odd ones that stand out, though. There's a home health nurse who found a body missing an arm a few months back. The victim was a transient man, looks like he'd spent the better part of two decades homeless and travelling. The local PD had a hard time figuring out what happened to him, but they thought he might have lost the arm in an accident. Since he was on the river shore at a local park, they think he might have went out for a midnight dip and been hit by a boat's rotor. Not much investigative work was done though."

"Because he was homeless," Sam concluded, annoyed. "Why that case?"

Braeden tilted her head in thought. "This is a small city. The nurse found the guy's body in the park, which is directly behind the shopping area where we were parked this morning. If you were going to start munching on people, why not pick someone no one would miss? Maybe our wendigo didn't get to finish the meal though?"

"You said a midnight dip?"

"I'm exaggerating." Braeden shrugged. "Body was found in the early hours of the morning." She glanced down. "After 5 A.M., and the report said he hadn't been dead long when police arrived. But if he bled out, the accident could have happened earlier, depending on the circumstances."

"If the wendigo didn't finish with him, it could be because the victim escaped," Sam realized. "So, if someone was hurt that badly and running..."

"The creature couldn't have been keeping him far away," Braeden agreed.

"Does the report say if the nurse noticed any other witnesses, possible suspects or anything?"

Braeden shook her head. "Not the most detailed paperwork," she admitted. "But I've got contact info. Let's give the nurse, Nancy Brewer, a call and find out if she saw anything nearby. Maybe we can meet with her."

"We'll leave your bike and call from the car." Sam nodded to himself, turning back toward the hotel door with his keys in hand. "Even if she didn't see anything, maybe we can get an idea of where our creature feature had the victim. I'll walk the whole damn town if it means finding a clue."

* * *

Dean's blood felt like it was on fire, especially the steady stream of it spilling down his side. He could almost picture it as acid, eating right through his skin and dripping onto the floor, corroding the cement and working its way down to old Crowley's throne room. He focused on that, on the fire, instead of paying attention to what he was hearing. Swearing helped to drown it out, too, and every curse he could think of was being sent toward fucking Jasper, which, God, what a dick.

It was better to spit out nonsensical threats than to think about the sound of the quick _squick_ his skin made when it was pulled free. Or the smack and chew of Jasper's teeth ripping into it. Even concentrating on the pain was better than listening to the wolf's pleas. An aborted howl of anger had been cut off by a wet _slurp_ -thud- _slurp_ -thud. That sound was familiar. It was the noise a knife made as it slid into a body and out again, over and over.

"Now, don't make me gag you again, mutt," Jasper warned.

The comment cut through all the rest, bringing Dean back to the moment. His captor's voice was almost pleasant, at odds with all the rest. When Dean looked up, he realized that Jasper was talking to Derek, but Jasper quickly turned his attention back to the hunter. His face was flush, cheeks rosy and eyes bright with excitement.

"Don't worry your pretty head," Jasper said, wiping off blood slicked hands with a rag. "I'll get back to you soon enough. We've got plenty of time together, don't we? Gonna make this last a nice while."

His footsteps pounded up the staircase. Dean heard the basement door slam shut. When he dared to crane his neck back, Derek was still hanging from his chain, rivers of blood slithering around his legs and down onto the floor. Dean couldn't see all the stab wounds on the man's back, but the werewolf looked like he'd fallen in a tub of knives. No way anyone could lose that much blood and live, Dean thought.

"Why the hell didn't you stay quiet?" Dean snapped.

And, shit, if the very act of speaking didn't tug on the skin over his ribs and make him wince. Dean knew his own wound couldn't have been as gaping as any of Derek's, but he felt raw, open, the air touching the spot a red-hot rod searing into him.

"Wasn't…" Derek trailed off, head lolling back between his shoulders.

"Hey." Dean hissed out a breath, annoyed that just trying to get a good look at the other guy hurt. "Hey, Lon Chaney, wake the hell up!"

Dean saw the moment Derek's legs tensed, trying to hold himself up again. Not unconscious then. Not yet.

"'S not a curse," Derek muttered.

"Uh, good, I guess? You hanging in there?" Dean asked.

"Being a werewolf isn't a curse," Derek said. " _The Wolf Man_ … was a stupid...movie."

"Yeah, well, I've run across some innocent victims who'd say otherwise," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "How quickly can you heal, 'cause those knife wounds don't look like they're going anywhere?"

"Weak." Derek swallowed hard. "But the bleeding is good. Wanted him to lash...lash out," he said, sounding exhausted. "Needed… Needed to drain the poison from my blood. Wolfsbane in the cuffs. It's…"

"To keep you from going Hulk on the chains, yeah, I see," Dean noted. "That won't do you any good if you bleed to death. _Can_ you bleed to death?"

"In theory," Derek replied, then stayed quiet, as if thinking the prospect over.

Dean didn't like this, any part of it, and he was annoyed at himself for worrying about the werewolf instead of making a plan of escape. He couldn't help it, though. Despite what he'd been through, the constant hunting in Purgatory, that hardness that had grown around him since finding a way out, despite all that, he still felt sick at the sight of the man beside him. Werewolf or not.

Out of nowhere, the chains above groaned and Derek swung backward. Dean jumped at the sudden movement, growling in pain when he didn't budge an inch.

"Damn it!" Derek snapped.

"What are you doin'?" Dean grimaced as he tried to get a better look. "Were you trying to kick the wall?"

Derek huffed, sounding breathless. "The pulley. Still can't reach it."

The pulley, the ones holding Dean's arms back at such a threatening angle. If he could actually sit up straight, he might have a chance of getting free from the chair. "Well thanks for the try," he said, awkwardly. Maybe there was some other way to slip the rope from the pulley. "So, this Jasper guy. I kind of picked up on the fact that he's missing an abundance of claws and teeth."

"There's wendigo in his bloodline," Derek assured. "Or he thinks there is. He's trying to trigger the change by eating enough flesh. He smells different… I think it's working."

"Yay for Jasper," Dean groused. "Braeden said you disappeared while hunting a shifter. Found that guy, by the way. Wasn't pretty. How'd a werewolf find himself hunting, anyway?"

"I wasn't-" Derek's voice cut off. "It wasn't hunting. People were getting hurt by something supernatural, and there wasn't anyone protecting this territory." His voice sounded steadier, and Dean wondered if he'd been right about draining the poison. "I thought I could help," Derek continued. "When I was young, my family, they protected people, when something like this thing threatened lives, my mother's pack went after it. Most packs do."

"No kidding?"

"You don't believe me. I don't care. You asked a question, and I answered it."

"Jesus, we're testy, aren't we." Dean shook his head. "None of the werewolves I've hunted were itching to become super heroes."

"You've probably hunted out of control Omegas, most of them bitten instead of born. Or, at least, a few generations removed from a pureblood Alpha bite." Derek hesitated a moment. "If you hunted packs like mine, I'd know it. We keep up with the families, the hunters who truly hate our kind. They come whether there's danger or not. They might as well be killing for sport."

"What about you?" Dean asked. "You mentioned your mother's pack. Why are you with Braeden instead of them?"

Derek was silent. Dean could fill in the blank though. Those hunting families the werewolf had mentioned with such spite. Dean knew he shouldn't have asked, but he had a feeling Derek wasn't one to talk so much when not under the influence of extreme bloodloss. A 'getting to know you' session wasn't exactly what Dean had been aiming for though. And it certainly wouldn't make things easier if they both got out alive and had to make a tough choice.

A loud pop rung out, startling Dean. "What the hell?"

When he strained to see Derek's position better, the werewolf was grimacing, breathing heavily through his teeth, and something about his body looked different. It took Dean another moment to realize the man's shoulder had shifted, one side higher than the other. Dislocated.

"What the hell did you do?" Dean belted, his eyes wide.

Derek hushed him. "Quiet, before it hears me."

At a hushed whisper, Dean echoed, "What the hell did you do?"

"I need a few more inches."

Another loud pop sounded. Dean almost gagged, watching Derek twist his body. The werewolf's eyes rolled back in his head a moment, and Dean was almost sure he was going to pass out when Derek straightened, his face tense as he shifted his form delicately and kicked out. Dean couldn't see what he did, but the snap of wood and metal rung out.

Dean practically folded forward at the sudden release, only the bolts under his chair keeping his strapped body from hitting the floor. He tried to ignore the searing pain from having his muscles suddenly lax and focus on the fact that the shift had loosened the ropes holding his wrists.

"I can't believe that worked. Good job, wolf boy."

Derek didn't answer. His body was hanging, a heavy weight held up by the pair of cuffs above, his shoulders misshapen. Dean knew what kind of permanent damage that would do a human's arms, but he was sure it wasn't pleasant for a werewolf either. And if the weight of his body kept him from breathing, it wouldn't matter either way.

"Hold on, Derek," Dean muttered, and went to work on the knots behind his back.


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes, places blended together. It wasn't exactly a foreign feeling, waking up of a morning, forgetting where he was, especially when so many rooms looked alike. He felt much the same way now, standing on the sidewalk, watching a few mid-day customers running errands in the small city. Riverside had some amount of charm, and it was here, in this dusty part of town, with its line of tall store-fronts and brick sidewalks. Once, he was certain, this had been the heart, the main economic focus of the area, sitting snug with the Tennessee River. Now, fast food restaurants and department stores were all two miles away, along a highway, pulling the crowd from the historical district.

It could have been any place, any town. Sam wondered if, in five years, he were to walk back down this sidewalk, he'd even remember where he was: the place he'd almost lost Dean. Again.

With a shaky breath, he repeated that most important word, "almost."

Braeden touched his elbow lightly, directing him to a bench in the shade of a small maple tree as she spoke into her cell phone. Nancy Brewer, the person who'd discovered a one-armed body in the nearby park, had moved. Sam had taken the information like a blow to the stomach, but just as quickly, he'd recovered when the woman agreed to at least speak to the "federal investigators" over the phone.

Glancing around to make sure there was no nearby passer-by to listen in, Braeden turned on the speaker phone so that Sam could hear. He'd almost insisted on making the call while he was parking, until he remembered that, while he'd been acting the part for a long time, Braeden had, if she was telling the truth, plenty of authentic experience in playing law enforcement.

"...Yes, that's right, it was early morning," Nancy was saying. Her voice sounded staticy and syrupy sweet, a Southern accent tugging at her words until they were long and lazy. Sam took a guess that she was almost as old as her clients, with retirement likely being the reason for her recent move. "I'd left early for work that morning, to visit an old patient's family. The poor dear had been shipped off recently to a nursing home in Alabama, and without a word to me or mine about her no longer needing our services if you can believe it. Discourteous is what it is. Anyhow, I'd left a stack of books with her. I'm a reader, you see, of romance, and I wanted to return them to Betty Hill, my neighbor, but that family-"

"Um, ma'am," Sam interrupted, "you were walking through the park?"

Braeden glanced up at him, a smile in her eyes. She must have heard the barely-contained strain in his voice.

"Why, yes, after trying to see Donna Howlett's boy about my books, yes. He wasn't at home, so I tried work but he wasn't answering the door there either, even though I know I saw his momma's Cadillac parked there. I figured he was avoiding me, so I was left with an hour to kill before I had to be anywhere, and I thought I'd just slip through the alley to the park, since there's nothing much else to do on that side of town. Ain't even any thrift stores open early, but his antique shop, and they closed the Downtown Cafe a year back, but there's a lovely bench in the walk park, and I just thought it would be a nice spot to eat my orange. I have one day, at breakfast, so it don't make my sugar go up too high in the night, and there he was, just laying on the gravel next to the water. Right next to my sitting spot. Dead as all get-out."

Braeden cleared her throat, as if to stop the woman from continuing. "The initial report makes no mention of any other witnesses. Was there anything you forgot to mention to the police at the time? Anyone who might have been close enough to see the accident?"

"Oh, I'm sure there wasn't. If it was a good fishing spot, maybe, but it's too close to town, and like I said, there aren't many businesses until you get to the end of the street, where those Indians opened that gaudy gas station."

Sam bit his lip to keep from commenting on that last part. His brow wrinkled with a sudden thought. "But the antique shop was open early?"

"The sign wasn't flipped yet," Nancy assured, "but when Donna was still running it, she always got there bright and early. It was her pride and joy, and I suppose she needed one, what with being a single mother with a boy like hers. He's obviously a bit lazier than his mother, when it comes to catching the early worm."

"But his car was there that morning?" Sam asked.

Braeden sat up straighter, looking over her shoulder. Sam realized she was trying to spot building in question. He could vaguely remember passing by it on the way to the convenience store.

"His mother's car. Jasper always used hers, ever since she got down and out, and I was brought into the picture to help. Donna was always so sure her boy would take good care of the shop, but I doubted it. Always up in the clouds, that one, running off to do this or that, upsetting poor Donna. She was a fine Christian woman, I'm sure, but I was always happy to get out of the house when her boy was home."

Sam stood up, Braeden following his lead. She snatched the phone from him, "Uh, thanks, thank you, Mrs. Brewer, that's all that we need right now, but we'll be in touch," and quickly disconnected. Glancing at Sam, she whispered, "The son then?"

"Location fits. Sounds like a good enough lead to me," Sam said, striding forward.

"Surely someone would have heard, if he was using the building to keep victims?"

Sam waved a hand at the street. There were maybe three other cars parked in front of the meters, two of them at a pawn shop further down. "The antique shop was attached to an empty storefront. The other side was the cafe, the one Nancy said hadn't been open in a year."

Braeden nodded. "Okay. Good enough start. Weapons?"

"Fire always works," Sam assured, and headed toward the Impala.

* * *

"Come on, come on!" Dean whispered, struggling to shake the numbness out of his fingers so he could work on the straps at his legs. When he was loose, he nearly stumbled in his haste to stand, but he froze before he could celebrate his freedom. He didn't need supernatural hearing to catch the sound of a door shutting upstairs. Jasper must have been out, which explained why he didn't come rushing at the sound of the pulley busting, but he was obviously back. And it sounded like his footsteps were getting closer to the basement entrance.

Dean's boots slid against the blood as he shifted to Derek's side. Remembering the pick he had hid against his sock, he reached down and pulled it free. He was certain that the chain above was probably on a similar pulley, but he didn't have the time or strength to sort it out. Instead, Dean relied on instinct, and a skill that almost came as second nature to him. He leaned in behind Derek, trying not to touch the werewolf's battered and bleeding body, and failing as he blindly stretched up and tried to get his lock pick into the manacles.

He could barely feel his fingers and his shoulders were screaming at him, but he knew he had no room to complain, not next to Mr. Double Jointed here.

"Derek, you with me?" Dean whispered, his mouth almost against the man's black hair.

He was surprised that he'd managed to get so close without the stench gagging him, considering how long the guy had been down here. Derek smelled mostly of blood and sweat, and Dean figured that had something to do with the waterhose hanging on the wall. He shuddered to think of what bathtime meant when Jasper was in charge.

Derek groaned when Dean accidentally brushed against his butchered back. There could be no helping it though. If the guy hadn't been cut to ribbons, Dean might have felt more than a bit dirty, rubbing against a naked man without his permission. He made a mental note to leave this part out of the retelling, if he made it back to Sam. With a second's hesitation, Dean continued until he heard the snap of the lock releasing. He let go of his pick, barely having time to wrap an arm around Derek before his weight dropped. Dean slowed their descent, both of them hitting the floor a second later.

Derek was sprawled between his denim-clad legs, hunched over across Dean's thigh. As much as he wanted to roll the guy off of him, he could hear Jasper at the lock on the basement door. Dean grabbed Derek's right arm, rotating it back, his other hand holding the man's shoulder steady. He could feel the joint shift as the bone moved back into place, and Derek jumped against him, suddenly aware.

Dean squeezed his arm in warning. "He's coming."

Derek turned back, his eyes wide. "Then you need to run. Get to the stairs. When he comes down, I'll distract him. You get out."

It felt wrong, having someone else spout a plan at him, especially since that someone had been unconscious seconds earlier, but it was exactly what Dean had wanted to do: run. He took a long look at Derek, still half curled in on himself in pain, and pushed himself away. Without a word, he stood and moved to the shadows of the room, circling toward the bottom of the staircase.

Derek didn't stare after him, his eyes fixed on the doorway above.

Dean pushed himself against the wall and waited for his chance.

* * *

It was worse. Worse than waking up from the battle with the Alpha or Kate's hospitality. Worse than bullets coated in wolfsbane. Worse than getting impaled, repeatedly. As far as physical trauma went, Derek was certain he'd outdone himself this time. Hanging from the chain for weeks had done more damage than the wendigo himself and his body hadn't had a chance to even try and heal his abused ligaments and muscles. His wolf was too busy trying to keep him alive.

He didn't want to wake up, be fully aware again, even as his body screamed that it was released from those cuffs. He barely noticed the warm body that he was leaning against, only conscious to the fact that the owner was helping, not hurting him.

His arm raised without permission, a pressure at his shoulder letting him know what was coming. Derek shot to full awareness just as one shoulder set. Pain and relief hit him all at once, and he blinked, wide awake, up at the hunter against him.

Dean's skin looked gray, haggard, and Derek's instinct was to pull the pain from him, but he knew he couldn't even try in his current state. Before he could say as much, he heard the reason for Dean's pale face - Jasper was just outside the basement door and coming in.

"He's coming," Dean said, quietly.

Derek couldn't so much as stand. His body wasn't ready. Wouldn't be ready any time soon. But maybe the hunter could at least get help, bring Braeden back.

"Then you need to run." Derek was surprised at how clear his own voice was. "Get to the stairs. When he comes down, I'll distract him. You get out."

Quickly, didn't need to be spoken. Dean's heart skipped; Derek could hear it and wondered what the hunter had been about to say. From the look on his face, he was close to arguing. Instead, though, Dean pushed himself back, letting Derek roll off of his leg, and standing without a word.

Derek watched the staircase. Jasper appeared a moment later, a hum at his throat that disappeared completely as soon as he met Derek's gaze. For a moment, they both froze, then they acted. Derek pretended to try and get away, half crawling toward the far side of the room and listening to Jasper's heavy steps hasten to get to him.

"Hey, momma's boy!"

Derek looked back just in time to see Dean appear out of the shadows, wrestling a noose of thick waterhose around Jasper's neck.

"Get out!" Derek snapped.

Dean wasn't listening. He delivered a quick kick to the back of Jasper's knee, taking him to the cement floor. Jasper grasped at the rubber hose, face stricken in panic. His lips twisted into a snarl, and Derek noticed it, the white spots at the center of his eyes, expanding out until they were milky pearls. The transformation was happening.

"Dean, watch out!"

Derek tried to jump to his feet and slipped. His other shoulder set of its own accord, the pain blinding him for a moment. When he managed to focus, it was just in time to see Jasper jerk forward, tossing Dean and the hose over his head.

Dean landed hard on his back, gasping for breath, but managed to roll out of the way right before Jasper's fist hit the floor where his chest had been. The hunter pulled himself to his feet at a half run toward the bottom steps. Jasper shot forward to meet him, his fingers wrapping around the man's calve to hold him in place. Even from across the room, Derek could see Jasper's fingers elongating to match a set of pointed claws. Their talon-like tips shredded Dean's jeans and blood sprouted to the surfaces as they scored flesh.

Dean cried out in pain, and something in Derek shifted, his muscles rolling beneath the skin. His mind caught up with his body, turning to instinct for survival. When he blinked, he saw out of the eyes of a wolf.

* * *

A flash of blue eyes and then a mound of black fur, tackling Jasper away from Dean: it was all the hunter saw before he rolled over, scrambling back the few feet to the steps and out of the wendigo's grip. His leg throbbed where Jasper's new set of claws had found purchase, but it wasn't enough to stop him from moving. No, what made him hesitate was the sight before him, of Jasper with a mouth full of razor sharp teeth, screaming at the massive wolf snarling into his face.

Derek. That was Derek. As an actual wolf. If he wasn't so terrifying, Dean might have found him, the animal him, beautiful.

"Dean!"

The shout hit Dean like a ton of bricks. He almost stumbled off his seat on the bottom step when he recognized Sam's voice. Sure enough, his brother was standing in the basement doorway, handgun raised, with Braeden at ten o'clock, crouched to aim her own weapon past the door frame.

"I'm good," Dean shouted back, knowing his brother needed the confirmation.

The guests had proved a distraction to the wolf as well. Jasper tossed Derek halfway across the room and the werewolf landed with a pained whine. Sam and Braeden took that as an invitation. The room lit with the flash of gunfire.

Dean cupped his hands to his ears, suddenly reminded of his concussion, and watched as Jasper stumbled back, taking hit after hit. The wendigo landed on the floor but was still twitching, his mouth open in an animal's wild roar.

"I will," he screamed, blood gurgling from his lips, "devour!"

Sam seemed to have an answer for that. He gave Dean a sharp nod and the older hunter dove off the steps, stumbling as far as he could from the staircase. Sam came down them at a run, his handgun tossed aside for a small fuel tank strapped with a handle. Braeden held out the stick lighter like they'd practiced the move. Dean shut his eyes to the glow of the homemade flamethrower, squinting when a wave of dry heat hit the room. It was just in time for him to see Jasper's clothes catch light, the flames scorching his hair and skin before he could so much as issue another scream. The wendigo flailed, falling flat on the cement and staying down.

Dean thought for a second it was the creature whimpering, still burning alive on the floor, until he realized the sound was coming from behind him. The wolf was crouched low, as if to avoid the flames, its jaw working in tense movement to make a pitiful, fearful whine.

As soon as the flamethrower sputtered out, Braeden ran past, stopping just short of the wolf. "Derek, it's ok, you're ok," she said. She glanced back at Sam. "The fire," she explained.

Sam frowned, but crouched down beside Dean instead of moving to help the woman. He clasped his brother's shoulder, his hand sliding to the back of his neck, refusing to let go.

"Dean? You hurt?"

Dean didn't want to answer too honestly. "I've had worse," he said. "Nothing life threatening," he assured. "Derek's in worse shape. Or he was before he went all…" Dean waved his hand toward the wolf "...canine."

"The shift might help him heal faster, but I don't know how quickly he can change back when he's hurt," Braeden agreed. "We need to get out of here. Someone will see the smoke. It's not even fully dark out yet and we're in town."

Sam gave the werewolf a cautious glance. "Don't get too close," he warned Braeden. "He might not know you." She shot him a look of annoyance, but didn't counter the comment.

"Wait. It's not even been a full day?" Dean asked, as if offended.

"It's amazing the messes you can get into in just a few hours," Sam said, raising a brow. "Let's try not to add getting arrested for murder to the list today."

"Yeah, well, sounds like a day that ends in a Y," Dean muttered. He glanced at the wolf and whistled to catch its attention. Its dark eyes brightened to blue for a moment, before fading again. "I don't care if your ass is furry or hairy, but we need to haul it up those steps. ASAP. If you can control this thing, now's the time to prove it."

Sam took the silent cue, helping Dean up to his feet. After a moment, the wolf glanced between Braeden and the brothers and pushed itself up, hobbling toward the steps. Braeden cocked her head, staring at Dean with a raised brow.

Dean shrugged as best he could manage. "What can I say? Dog whisperer."

Derek growled under his breath and picked up the pace on the steps.

"Still a dick," she noted. "Glad to see the monster didn't break you."

Dean gripped the back of his brother's shirt tightly and tried not to look at the smoldering corpse behind them. "Takes a bit more than that, sweetheart."

* * *

"You ready?"

Sam looked up at the question in surprise. He tapped his cell phone, saving the information Braeden had sent him and pocketing the phone. It was just after midnight, but he understood his brother's need to skip out of this town. Even so, he'd hoped Dean would change his mind, take a few hours of shut-eye and let them find somewhere with pain meds for the wound on his back. Sam knew that the car ride was going to be torture on his injuries.

"Uh, yeah, ready when you are," Sam finally answered. "Braeden was just giving me a few contacts we can reach out to. She was a US Marshall once upon a time," Sam explained.

Dean raised a brow, impressed. "Wow, salary and everything, huh? That must be useful."

She shrugged one shoulder as she crossed the room, a bottle of water in hand. "I get by," she agreed. "So where are you two headed?"

"We've got some people to check up on," Sam explained. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

Braeden nodded. "We've got an ally flying out. He's a druid healer. He'll be able to patch him up, if Derek needs it. Thank you again, for your help."

She glanced back at the room's second bed, where Derek was lying in his human form. A sheet had been pulled up over him and was already stained with dry blood from the few hours of sleep he'd managed. The werewolf's back was facing them, and faded red lines were all that remained of the more shallow stab wounds. A few, though were still open.

"Part of the job," Dean commented, and cleared his throat. "Did your 'ally' say anything about the wolfsbane poisoning."

"That if it hadn't killed him yet, it must be a mild strand. I think Derek's through the worst of it. He just needs time," Braeden assured.

Dean grunted in something close to agreement.

Sam watched his brother's expression carefully, interested in the way his lips curled into a frown, the small lines at his eyes crinkling. It almost looked like real concern on his face. This wasn't what Sam had expected from this hunt. A decent ending. Maybe not exactly happy, but as happy as they could have hoped for at the end of the day.

Everyone alive. Even the werewolf.

Sam felt uneasy at the thought. This was becoming a thing with them, finding the gray area, but maybe a bit of trust was allowed here. After all, the wolf had managed to control himself on the way back before he passed out against Braeden's side and shifted back into a person in his sleep. And he had a hunter vouching for him.

Sam gave Dean rueful grin. Maybe two hunters. Sam really wondered what Derek had done to earn Dean's trust in such a short time.

"Keep an eye on him," Dean said. "For everyone's sake."

"He's a good person." Braeden's voice was pleading, and Sam understood. She still wasn't sure if they were going to send hunters his way. Or hers, for that matter.

"Unless he proves otherwise," Dean said, carefully. Then he sighed. "He's a person. Ready, Sam?"

Dean didn't wait for a reply, nodding his farewell to Braeden and heading out the door. Sam moved to follow and the woman surprised him with a quick, awkward hug. Her face was stony, when she released him, as if she was already pretending it didn't happen.

"Call if you need me to return the favor," she said, briskly, shutting the motel door as soon as he'd stepped outside.

"Hot and cold, that one," Dean commented, hopping in the passenger's side without a fight.

Sam slid into the driver's seat. "You sure you don't want to stick around, say bye to Derek? I mean, it sounds like you didn't hate him."

"No," Dean replied. "Drive."

Sam shook his head, biting the inside of his lips to keep from commenting. He drove off the lot, headed toward the highway out of town. "We did the job," he said, hoping it sounded reassuring.

"The 'saving people' part, it's the one that comes first," Dean said, nodding once.

Sam wasn't sure who his brother was trying to reassure. He only smiled faintly at the open road, the moon hanging in the horizon like a beacon. "Get some rest, Dean."


End file.
